Wine Giques first videoblog!
(Please note that I had some uploading issues. This is a low-res Flash version -- for a high-res Quicktime version, go to our page on Blip.tv.)
Ahhh, Ludo -- I simply know, that if we lived in a different place in the time-space continuum, you would be the love of my life. You're simply the picture of talented chef perfection: hotness and mean technique with a knife. How can a girl resist? And now you're facing off tonight on "Top Chef Masters" against one of my other chefly-crushes, Rick Bayless (his margaritas are a revelation), and a long-time friend, Cindy Pawlcyn (whose Thai-Gin-Tini is equally revelatory). [Note: I haven't had the pleasure of hanging out with Wilo Benet.]
And, wouldn't you know it, my damn TV is not working. There's a giant tree in the front yard that, encouraged by our unseasonably cool summer, has enthusiastically outgrown its last haircut. That's right, no satellite. (Well, we still get the Sleuth channel.) So I'm going to sleuth a spot to watch Ludo where no one will notice if I hyperventilate. I telephoned Barney's Beanery across from my office, and while they definitely favor the sports (anyone catch today's US-España soccer final?), they can give me a table where I can tune my own telly. I don't know if they charge corkage at Barney's, but here's what I'll try to bring to take the edge off the unbearable tension of watching a Top Chef cookoff: 2006 Chateauneuf du Pape Chante Cigale. Wine Spectator describes it as "muscular but forward ... with a tight grip on the finish." (!!!) It also has flavors of tobacco and lavender, much like my favorite French men. And, when it comes to favorite French men, you're very high on my list, M. Lefebvre. Bonne chance, and thanks for representin' for your posse in LA. Now, where are my smelling salts?
I've learned a couple of things over the past few weeks: 1) Getting older means not trying so hard to be perfect (imperfect people are sooo much more interesting); and 2) if you let your ex-husband bring the wine to a party, he'll trot out some good stuff, but he also might try to drink it before you even get the canapés on the table.
My daughter graduated from middle school last week. (Please note that I became a mother when I was very young.) In this day and age, middle school graduation is apparently a very big deal, necessitating a ceremony, a diploma, a new fancy dress (underwritten by grandmother Carla), and a party (underwritten by me). Relatives rolled into town. Being a blended family, that meant a fairly large posse of admirers showed up to watch our favorite little Rose make the transition to high school, including my collection of male friends who serve as my daughter's stand-in dads in this crazy urban jungle called L.A.
Now here's the part about being perfect. Even though my mother was part of the posse, I refused to throw myself into the paroxysms of perfectionism that were my previous M.O. when it came to parties. Instead, I made a list and delegated chores. And then I ordered out. My target: tiny, delicious tartines from the newly-opened Pain Quotidien just up the street. My daughter and my best buddy Jeff accompanied me to pick them up. "But I thought you were ordering sandwiches!" she said, "These don't have tops!"
Indeed they don't. They look prettier that way. The dog would just snatch the tops off anyway, while we were looking around for the corkscrew. The sandwiches were perfect as they were.
The posse arrived, bearing their designated goodies: Fruit, cheese, sweet things. And the aforementioned ex-husband, with the case of wine. Sparkling and white, already chilled. Box hauled to the back deck, cheese and bread piled on the kitchen counter, tartines awaiting dispersal around the corner. I got to work, delegating.
When I finally made it outside, there was bubbly all around. "May I have a glass?" I asked. No answer. "Um ... may I have a glass?" I repeated. The clinking and the chatter continued unabated, until the lovely Marine captain in the corner finally noticed that I was looking rather parched, and poured me the very last glass of pink tasty goodness.
The bubbly? Schramsberg Mirabelle. Rosé for our little Rose, the elixir we always drink to celebrate the joy she brings us.
The ex, BTW, had already moved on to uncorking the next rounds: Graff 2007 Chalone Pinot Blanc (I've written about the wonderful Graff winery before), Estancia 2008 Pinot Grigio. A guest brought 2006 Kinter Collins Chardonnay. And the aforementioned lovely Marine captain and his wife brought me what I really wanted: 2007 Cline Ancient Vine Mourvèdre (they're invited back, anytime). We drank, snacked on tartines, and gave the dog what he wanted: leftover bits of bread. And my daughter and her buddies decamped to her room to do what they wanted: to text each other and chat on Facebook. After all, the point of the party was the tartines and the wine, yes? And all that random stuff that grownups talk about. After all, she already had the new dress and the diploma.
And me, I had that last glass of Mirabelle, a pleasant gathering with old family who are now old friends, and the satisfaction of knowing that, without even trying, I was enjoying the perfect afternoon.
Now, as my friends can attest, I'm a college hoops kinda girl. As I've said on many occasion, if you cut me, I bleed Duke blue. And while K-ville became a phenomenon after I graduated from the Gothic Wonderland, I've spent a fair amount of time tossing back the vino with Coach K., and can tell you straight up that my heart belongs to him.
Or rather, it did, until I was seduced by the Birdman.
I don't know. Perhaps it was the joy of seeing the Men's USA team steamroller those poor Canadians in Vegas. Perhaps it was because my particular Cinderella missed the big dance. Maybe it's because they've got a kick-ass Twitter feed. But for some reason, I've been really sucked into the NBA playoff series this year. Obsessed, you might say.
Saturday evening found me awaiting friends at the bar at Cecconi's. I did what I usually do in bars: Order nice wine and chat up guys. The two next to me were "watching" the Lakers/Nuggets game on their smartphones. I whipped out mine and joined in. It was thrilling. So, thrilling, in fact, that I forgot to write down the name of the delicious Prosecco I was drinking, as well as the name of the gorgeous Italian bartender who served it to me. Luckily, I found the Prosecco on their website: San Giuseppe Vignadoro Prosecco 2007. Light, delicious, slightly slurpable, perfect for the heady feeling of watching a hard-fought contest in the paint. (As for the name of the bartender, well, that is lost to time.)
Since one indulgence calls for another, even though it's late in the series, I thought I'd recommend a few bottles of the good stuff to drink while you're cheering on your favorite team:
The Lakers: Oh, Lakers, Lakers. You're the laziest-ass good team I've ever seen. Kobe's got's beautiful game for sure, but what's with waiting until the last quarter to turn on the heat? Every night? I'm glad I'm not your lover: I'd be down the street mackin' on Marco long before you ever got revved up for the good stuff. So, you get a wine that is, appropriately, late to the finish (and maybe worth the wait): 1998 Flora Springs Trilogy. It's been in the cellar for a while (like Bynum), you'll probably need to decant it (like Odom), but once you have a sip or two, it's likely to pay off for you -- just like Pau Gasol.
The Nuggets: I hate to tell the perennial favorites (I'm looking at you, Lakers and Magic), but these guys are rock stars. Their ripped, inky biceps, their matching headbands, that Birdman 'do. And the passion they bring to the court ... the Nuggets are definitely poised to deliver some whupass in the coming seasons. For them, I recommend Betts & Scholl 2005 "The Chronique" Grenache. The winemakers bless it with juicy opulence and endless cheer. They also named it after a bona fide rock star--Dr. Dré--so make sure you get in a bit of crumpin' while you're drinkin'. And don't smoke.
The Cavaliers: For those of you who missed it, LeBron worked a little magic on the Magic the other night, with a last-second basket that put the Cav's over the top for a win. Alas, I think the Magic have ultimately gotten the upper hand, but lest you lose hope, I offer this to keep up your spirits: Hope Estate 2006 "The Ripper" Shiraz. It won't set you back many ducats, and apparently, "Ripper" is a term of endearment to Aussies, so you're free to shout it at your favorite Cav as they he tries make mincemeat of the Magic. My personal favorite: Zydrunas Ilgauskas (what do you think he gets called in the heat of passion? Hmmm ....).
The Magic: The FFOS (Former Friends of Shaq) are poised to take the East, which is actually one of the reasons I'm thankful I no longer live there. Nonetheless, they're players with great style and a bit of bubbly grace. Given that they hail from the land-that-Disney-owns, I'm rather tempted to give them a non-alcoholic beverage, but common sense steps in and I will instead recommend a frothy American sparkling wine: Scharffenberger Brut N.V. It's not in the Diddy-land stratosphere of pricy Bolly, but it's tasty and will make you feel, well ... magic.
Well, there you are, my ducks. A bottle for each of you, no matter whom you favor. As for me, I just might take one of each, and start organizing my festivities for the Finals.
By chance I happened to watch the Preakness yesterday. It's not Freakness, Dottie, and it is a race, not a horse. Race two of the Triple Crown. Horses were my daughter's passion for a good number of years until she lost her favorite teacher, and her desire to ride.
Silly title, I know. But sometimes, when it's getting late in the evening, and you've spent the day convincing folks to talk about what you do (yeah, I'm a flack, among other things), and you're on your second glass of Côtes du Rhône, well, you stretch things a little. But I'm not writing about that. I'm writing about this: The magic is working, and the Moveable Feast I've been wishing for is becoming more commonplace here in La-La Land. Is it the economy? The weather? The fact that, as Salon.com claimed a few days ago, celebrity culture is dead?
I'm not hunting for the reason. I don't really care. I only know that, on Christmas night, several handsome men showed up at my door bearing food, wine and holiday cheer, and all I had to do was crank up the tunes and set the table. (Okay, I did the dishes, but I actually like that part, if you can believe it. Nothing calms me more after a hard night of hostessing than wrestling the chaos back into the cabinets.)
Now, here's the part where I give props to the Veuve. Remember that awful holiday party game I wrote about in my last post? ("It's called 'White Elephant,' said Victor. Well, that's a mystery solved, isn't it?) I guess I have to drop my antipathy towards playing it, because it was a major source of my holiday libations this year. I scored the Fabulous Mr. DeVito's Limoncello. And Jeffy scored the Veuve Clicquot. It was the Brut Carte Jaune -- the famous yellow label, serviceably delicious, perfectly suitable for the evening's festivities.
I have to 'fess up to a bit of a soft spot for the Veuve. We drank it more than a decade ago to celebrate the birth of our daughter, although the occasion was, to us, a little more important than this year's Christmas party. We feted the arrival of our little rose with a bottle of La Grande Dame Rosé. The 1995 vintage will set you back 200+ smackeroos at the moment. (For me, it was worth every penny, and then some.)
I also love Veuve Clicquot because the Champagne house was founded by a woman--a widow, no less--who launched her career after the combination of a disastrous economy and typhoid (let's hope typhoid doesn't creep into our disastrous economy anytime soon) turned her into an 18th-century entrepreneur. "Veuve," BTW, means "widow" in French. Just in case you thought it meant something sexy like "This is wine Diddy would buy at a nightclub," or "If you drink this, George Clooney will kiss you." To this day, Veuve Clicquot is run by a woman. The latest president, Cécile Bonnefond, possesses a typically great French haircut. All French women have great haircuts. It's apparently a modern trait, however -- as you'll quickly determine once you check out the picture of the original Widow Clicquot on the website.
That's another one of my favorite things about Veuve: reading the website. Its fluid French copy just sounds better and better, the more Veuve you consume. Try it. Slurp down a couple of glasses and say this: "Cette année, elle le met une fois de plus au service de Veuve Clicquot, en créant une nouvelle pièce, magnifique : un écrin mystérieux, abritant le champagne La Grande Dame 1998, réinterprété par Andrée Putman avec style, touch & twist."
Hot, isn't it? Maybe George Clooney will kiss you, after all.
There's a new biography out about the Veuve with verve, BTW. It's called The Widow Clicquot: The Story of a Champagne Empire and the Woman Who Ruled It. Even though Christmas is pretty much over, and Amazon has declared their season a success, I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you picked up a post-holiday gift. Just remember to read it with a coûpe de Champagne, and thank a certain widow who busied herself turning a crystal ceiling into glasses full of star-laced dreams.
Bonne Année, mes chéries.
So, last week seemed to be the week for holiday parties here at Wine Giques HQ, and Wednesday night was the mother of the Festivus season: Office party, followed by the Tennis Club party. (Say "Tennis Club" with your teeth slightly clenched, just to get the effect. It's not at all a snobby place, but it's fun to say it like that, anyway.)
The office party was anything but typical, as the more industrious among us hauled all the equipment out of the studio and hauled in a bunch of furniture and rugs borrowed from a local prop house. Then a caterer showed up and laid out a delicious spread, which included some rockin' mac and cheese from Granville, good for the atypically brisk LA weather.
What was typical about the office party was the game we played -- you know, that obnoxious only-at-the-holidays fake gift-athon where everyone draws a number, and the person after you either gets to choose a gift -- or steal your gift? (This game probably has a name, but no one ever seems to remember what it is, probably because the stress of actually playing it is so overwhelming.) Well, I got a late number, which is the kind of number you want, because you can suss out the gifts and decide what you want to steal. And, although the horror film victim action figures were pretty tempting, and it was all I could do not to hide the case of Fat Tire Ale that I contributed to the melée, I soon spotted the gift I really wanted: Danny DeVito Limoncello.
Now, as all my fellow villa-trotting friends know, I'm a sucker for the Limoncello. It's the tie that binds us all together when we're in Italy: the libation that brings on the dance moves, loosens the tongues, and sends us into long conversations regarding life, love and the best way to make pizza.
Well, it apparently has a similar effect on Danny DeVito, who decided to make his own brand after his infamous appearance on The View, when he showed up tipsy, and blamed it on a long night of drinking Limoncello with his pal and GoFugYourself intern George Clooney. I'd call that making the best of a bad situation, wouldn't you?
As for the Limoncello itself, it's pretty tasty. I popped open the bottle after the Tennis Club (clenched teeth) soirée for a nightcap with my handsomest of party buddies, who happened to have a little cold. It did loosen our tongues a little, and we did speak of pizza, but mostly we reflected on how, when life hands you lemons, you gotta make lemonade. Take it from Signore DeVito. Happy Holidaze, y'all.
Wow. Wine Giques HQ has been a little deserted for a few weeks, and we apologize --both Suenarita and I have been super busy with our day jobs (mine involving tight ends in 3D, hers involving ways to help wineries sell more wine). All the furor hasn't left much time for our favorite hobby (drinking wine) or our second favorite hobby (writing about drinking wine), although we have both spent a great deal of time thinking about doing both, as well as thinking about our third favorite hobby (boys, and how good they look when they're we're drinking wine).
However, I'm happy to say that all is not lost, and to add that, despite the hiatus, my efforts to turn my life in LA into a moveable feast are progressing nicely, with the help of social media. (For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, this blog you're reading is a form of social media.) The story goes like this:
The phone rings. It's Jeffy. "What are you doing tonight?" "I dunno," I say, "What are you doing?" "I dunno," he replies. "Hmmm ..." I say, "I'm going to cook." "Great," he says, "See you at 7."
Half an hour later, a text message arrives. It's Jeffy. "What are you making?" he asks. "Hmm ..." I say, "I'm gonna make that awesome savory bread pudding with dandelion greens, bacon and goat cheese that I made that time, you remember?" "Awesome," he says, "I'm bringing the salad." (Jeffy's salads are architectural wonders, but that's another post.)
So, savory bread pudding, arugula salad, lemon sorbet for dessert. What were we missing? Oh, yes, that's right. The WINE.
"Making a fabulous savory bread pudding," I Tweet. (For those of you who don't know what that means, follow me. Here's the link.) "Hope someone's bringing a nice Zinfandel." Immediate response from my friend Marissa, via Facebook Mobile. "Sounds delicious!"
"Come and have some!" I respond, writing on her Wall. "Really?" she writes on my Wall. "Rea ...," I start to write on her Wall, and then I just pick up the damn phone and call her. Yeah, sometimes this social media thing goes too far.
Jeffy arrives with his darling friend Victor and the building blocks for his salad. Marissa arrives, and, hey presto, she's got the wine. And it's divine. Joel Gott 2006 Zinfandel, Russian River: tart, fruity, silky on the tongue, spicy in the finish. Called "the poor man's Turley," by some, and worth every penny of its $20 price, and more.
I drag my daughter off her MacBook (IM'ing her friends while watching an episode of Gossip Girl on iTunes), and we settle in, reveling in the comforts of a dish made almost entirely of warm bread with butter, cheese and bacon (how can you resist that? Even the dog tried to grab a chair at the dining table), offset by the wine, and the frisky bite of Jeffy's architectural arugula. Dinner by digital media, made real by the fact that my Facebook friends are well, really my friends. With good taste in wine. Bon appetit.
Being from the South, my mother is prone to using very colorful metaphors. Some of my favorites: "He didn't know me from Adam's housecat," "Happier than a dead pig in the sunshine," and "Busier than a three-legged cat covering up shit." Aside from the middle one (how can that pig be happy about being dead?), I often find these little idioms very useful when attempting to get someone's attention in a conversation --- particularly if that someone is one of my fellow Crazy Californians.
And when it comes to Crazy Californians, my mother also has a special turn of phrase for describing where we live. She calls it "The Land of Biblical Plagues." And, having lived through two major earthquakes, a couple of floods, and, lately, a slough of wildfires, I'm inclined to agree with her. All we're missing are the locusts and the frogs, although we certainly see many facsimiles of the aforementioned in my neighborhood around Passover time.
So, what does all this have to do with a wine blog? Well, everything: Living in the Land of Biblical Plagues has encouraged me to abandon wine for a while in favor of its more bourgeois sibling, the lowly beer. You see, it's been hot, hot, hot down here -- roaring Santa Ana winds, sand in the air, roses blooming their heads off just like it's the fifth of July. It makes you thirsty. That deep-down dust-bowl kind of thirst that a petite glass of Muscadet de Sèvre et Maine just can't satisfy.
It makes me wonder, this thirst for beer, if this is what the Israelites were feeling when they were wandering the desert. The relationship between human beings and beer has been long, uh, brewing: It trumps even red wine as the oldest alcoholic beverage on record. Yes, it seems the Stone Age had its frat-boy equivalents.
My beers of choice: Well, Fat Tire is a perennial favorite, as is Widmer Hefeweizen. (Like those Biblical beer drinkers, I have a predeliction for ale, not lager.) And I always look forward to Pete's Wicked holiday releases -- beer-brewing and a sense of humor go well together, in my book.
So, next time you hoist a few, give a little thanks to the Stone Age brothers who brought us the brew, that eternally-reliable thirst quencher after days spent trolling the desert. And, while you're at it, give a little dough to the folks who've been suffering in the latest round of wildfires. Even our President-Elect is helping out.
Suenarita and I had a rather serious conversation the other day. Well, as serious a conversation as was possible under the circumstances, considering that she was on the way to visit her friend, who had scored some Madonna concert tickets and was taking her to the show. It was also the eve of that election everyone's been talking about. But it was the giddy circumstances that brought us to a serious subject -- how to prevent a travesty that nearly always happens when folks start celebrating and drinking too much wine: Drunk corking.
You know you've done it. 'Fess up, we all have. It happened to me just a couple of weeks ago, during one of those regular rantfests we held this fall, otherwise known as the Presidential debates.
I had my usual wine-swillin', food-makin' posse over to watch the last debate. We were in the kitchen, cooking up a storm, when we quickly consumed the entire bottle of Hanna Sauvignon Blanc. We moved on to the Angeline Pinot Noir. And the debate hadn't even started yet. We dragged our homemade pizzas into the parlor, empty wine glases in hand. And I started rummaging in the wine cabinet.
Slim pickings. There were a few sad bottles of some random Austrian stuff, left by our second au pair. A bottle of Two-Buck Chuck, presented to me as a joke. And, shining like a light somewhere near the top, a jewel: 2005 Domaine du Grapillon D'or 1806 Gigondas. "What the hell," I thought. We drank it. And it was very, very wrong.
Wrong, you ask? How can consuming a delicious blend of Syrah and Grenache with an elegant cedar and cigar box aroma, as well as a rich, full fruity taste, from a winery that's been in the same family since 1806, be wrong? Especially when you're drinking it with fresh homemade pizza and even fresher friends?
Because we were tipsy, that's why. And because we'd dulled our senses with the Hanna and the Angelyne (not to mention all those anchovies that were supposed to be on the pizza). We lost half the experience, because we didn't drink the great wine first.
Suenarita and I are working on some devices -- perhaps an iPhone application that calls you when you're about to cork that bottle of The Prisoner after downing two or three 750's of Turning Leaf. The application will shout "Don't do it!," give you an electric shock, and then hide the corkscrew. We're also working on a little alarm that you can attach to your wine storage unit that will emit a very high-pitched whistle and make your dog start howling when you yank out that bottle of 1995 Heitz Cellars Bella Oaks Cabernet that was given to you by Belle Rhodes herself, after you've consumed a whole bunch of cheap champagne. (Yes, dear readers, I actually did this. When I was packing up my house in Napa in 2001. And those of you who drank it with me: you know who you are.)
We ended our conversation sadly, knowing that the urge to drunk cork can strike any time, anywhere, without warning.
Friends don't let friends drunk cork. Just say no, y'all.
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